


Tethered

by Thess



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 07:58:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4093144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thess/pseuds/Thess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the destruction of Haven, Solas gives the Inquisitor a gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tethered

It began with the veilfire, Solas decided while sketching out a rough outline on the walls of the rotunda, pleased with the initial design.

  
With the aftermath of Haven much of the Inquisition changed. The recruits more zealous, the veterans more watchful, the inner circle more devoted then ever. Yet the Inquisitor-remarkably returned to amongst the living- suprisingly somber.

  
Before Haven he was accustomed to the "Herald'-a quiet, patient elf bearing a unique and powerful magic she did not desire nor could scarcely wield-and Meryn, a force of nature who flourished in the wilderness away from the throngs of the Inquisition camps, both fearless and free. It was commonplace to find her everywhere she should not be, scrambling barefoot up the rock face of a hill in avoidance of the perfectly acceptable footpath a short distance away, tottering perilously close to the edge of a cliff to merely to view the surrounding landscape, even aimlessly wandering into a bear's den just to see if it was still hibernating. (Why? Because she'd never seen one before-the way she'd stared at him, as if she was the one questioning _his_ sanity.)

  
He studied her when he could, partly because he worried about the mark. If the bearer was so reckless anything was possible with the amount of magic in her hand; but it was mostly due to finally finding a suitable distraction to occupy him in his waking hours outside the Fade. His observation attempts were often hindered however.  In the field he and the other companions spent to much time trying to prevent her from accidentally getting mauled by wildlife or attacking groups of rogue templars to pay attention to her other more charming (and hopefully less exasperating) eccentricities.  When in Haven her favorite place was the roof of his ramshackle cabin, making it much harder for him to observe her reactions and expressions during their discussions. It was perturbing at first, being the focus of the endless probing questions- and by a Dalish no less- but he became used to it and even relished the stimulation.

  
The questions and topics she enjoyed debating were telling, ranging from his time in the Fade, his travels around Thedas, or more amusingly, his opinions on the appropriate punishments for Sera if and when she finally managed to shave Varric's chest hair for him while he slept. He responded honestly to some, outright lies to others, and half-truths to the majority. He could not always gauge her opinions of his answers from her perch above his head, but the snorts of derision, scoffs of unbelief, or faint hums or approval gave him a good enough idea.

  
It was a simple tradition, a casual and intelligent back and forth he had not expected discover amongst mortals, let alone enjoy. So enjoyable in fact that he found himself plying her with questions, telling himself it was for evaluating the after effects of the Anchor and definitely not to see the intriguing places her mind ventured when formulating a response.

  
It was not until after the battle with Corypheus when he watched her bring down a mountain and felt his heart seize in his chest that he came to realize the effect their conversations had had on him. She, Meryn, the so called Herald of Andraste, had become someone of importance; not because she bore his mark but because of who she _was_. Her. A quickling, and ironically, his lethallan. And he had not fully grasped the depth of his attachment to the small elf until she was smothered by a mountain of snow.

  
But this is in the past.

  
She miraculously returned and was named Inquisitor, placing her as the most highly venerated elf in an age. And yet his lethallan had not yet returned, the weights and duties of the Inquisition hiding her away, seemingly crushing her spirit just as the avalanche tried to do.

  
It was unacceptable.

  
So while he now had no roof for her to perch on (though Blackwall had mentioned seeing swaying, booted feet in the rafters of the stables) he could entice Meryn to return by igniting her curiosity-it was merely a question of how.

  
The idea came to him ironically enough from Sera, who was yet again planning a prank; this time with a small fire as opposed to a jar of bees. Thankfully the Inquisitor had wandered by and was able to curtail the arsonist impulse into something more productive involving a well timed stasis rune, a jar of honey, and a bucket of feathers. He may never agree with Sera on well, anything, but the fire and runes finally sparked an idea.  
It took little to assemble. A delicate silver chain procured from Josephine in promise of less offensive "hermit hobo" style attire for an upcoming dignitary's banquet, a small phial and stopper from the alchemist in exchange for elfroot and embrium, and finally a small veilfire brazier Meryn found in her explorations of the keep.

  
Using the brazier, he twisted the guided the Fade into a small, pale green fire, drawing it into his palm. True to the Fade's nature, the light was a gentle imitation of a real flame, but he found it comforting nonetheless. The mysteries of the Fade never ceased to amaze him and he allowed the nearly heat less blaze to flow around his fingers before calling it back together and willing it into the phial. He secured the stopper, sealing it with a spell and added the veilfire "pendant" to the chain.

  
Now to actually give it to her...

  
Solas found himself uneasy; an unusual occurrence in his long years, and in some ways he welcomed it-anything new or mutable was something to be valued, yet another attribute of the Inquisitor he found himself admiring. Whether she willed it or not, around her, the world _changed_.

  
An opportunity presented itself a handful of days after the gift's completion. He could have sought her out himself, but he refrained, waiting for the "opportune moment"-a concept he read about in one of Varric's deplorable pirate novels.

  
He was entering the rotunda from the library after returning yet another useless and bias tome about the Elvhen, and he did not notice her at first, namely because she was rather quiet and unassuming (when she wanted to be) practically melting into the shadows. A flash of silver caught his eye as he was passing the threshold, and the small leather boots hanging lazily off the side of his scaffolding confirmed it.

  
"Inquisitor." He smiled softly, announcing his presence.

  
The boots stopped swaying abruptly as the Inquisitor sat up, fingers gripping the edge of the platform to steady herself.

  
"Solas," she said with a small smile. "Or should I be calling you a deranged hobo-hermit-apostate-with-atrocious-table-manners? Though that seems like a mouthful," she added, violet eyes assessing him and his reaction as they always did. He means to ask her why she watches him this way, as if he is a puzzle or problem she can solve simply by scrutinizing him intently enough, but he does not.

  
He chuckles at her soft teasing instead.

  
"It is unnecessary. Josephine is prone to embellishment as you are well aware," he says distracted by her smile. It is not one he is accustomed too; Meryn's is bright-full of hope, laughter, and an overlarge dose of mischievous overconfidence that more often then not signifies impending doom for her traveling companions as they try to stay ahead of whatever "adventure" she's devised. That smile led them into bear caves, wolf dens, a high dragon's back, even a full conversation with Lord Woolsey. Who happened to be...a goat. Going for weeks without said smile makes him realize how much he misses it.

  
How much he misses _her_.

  
Remembering the trinket, he strides to his desk and pulls it out of one of the drawers, cradling it gently as he makes his way to the scaffolding and climbs the ladder to join her. She shuffles herself to the side to make room for him, drawing her legs up to her chest, hugging her knees.  She seems so small and frail, silver hair slightly aschew from where she was laying, and Solas is at a loss of where to begin, so he mimics her for the moment and simply rushes in.

  
"You have not been yourself Mer-Inquisitor," he stops himself from saying her name, unsure why.  She sighs, shrugging her shoulders but refrains from commenting. Her sighs are normally followed by annoyed diatribes (Why are you so grim and fatalistic? Come have some fried snofleur leg. It'll cheer you right up). Or ridiculous-if not humorous-implausible scenarios (If an army of nugs attacked us right now who would they eat first? Varric of course, his legs are are far to short), so he waits. But again she surprises him, answering honestly.

  
"How can I lead an Inquisition? An Inquisition made up of people who were probably hating me at one point for kidnapping their children and dancing naked in their corn fields," she says. "As if corrupting small children is the only thing a heathen wants to do in their spare time, "she adds.

  
"You are the only one who can lethallan," he says, ignoring the tempting tangent of conversation.

  
"Why? Because of the Anchor? Because of some wild magic the Chantry wants to claim for the Maker?" her voice, normally smooth and melodic, grows rougher as her disquiet grows. "I didn't ask for this, I don't want it. They should just send me back to the forest and let me catch up on my pillaging or whatever other ludicrous things they think Dalish do."

  
Solas laughs quietly to himself as he seriously consider her dilemma-the sheer outlandishness of her responses a clue to the depth of her discomfort.

  
"That is precisely why your advisers appointed you Inquisitor," he starts as she shoots him an adorably bewildered look. "Not the stealing babies, that would be counter productive," he says and her face relaxes, her smile now tentatively reaching her eyes, violet now twinkling. His chest swells with the glimpses of Meryn beginning to appear, so he decides to indulge in her imagination.

  
"Regardless, knowing you, you'd steal a child, then promptly lose it, and it would be raised by wolves or that bear you rosed in the Hinterlands, and when it came of age would inevitably seek you out in revenge for the theft and the wrongs committed against it's family," she bursts out laughing, relaxing herself and adjusting her posture so her left hand brushes his arm, and gently presses into his side.

  
He tries to ignore the new found charge in the air, a subtle vibration he's noticed on the few occasions she's been this close to him, and continues.

  
"You do not desire the mark-making you perfect to wield it. You acknowledge it's power but also your own lack of understanding, so you do not abuse it. You see the truth of your responsibilities-the way things are or should be-and do not shy away," he pauses, gauging her reaction. "It makes you uniquely qualified and fully capable to succeed," and because she's so close, her eyes so intent on him, he cannot help but add "Meryn".

  
He's not sure if the shiver he feels comes from her or himself as her name leaps out of his mouth for the first time. But he does know the pounding in his ears is his as the smile he's so fond of gloriously flits across her face once more, lightening every aspect of her. His heart swells in response.

  
He uncurls his hand, a faint shimmer of pale green light escaping the phial and drawing her attention. She reaches for it, fingers outstretched and the insatiable curiosity he associates with her is etched into every plane of her face. He should move the phial to his right hand, making it easier for her to access but he does not, forcing her to reach across him, brushing against him, thickening the subtle charge in the air.

  
Goal achieved, she plucks it carefully from his hand.

  
"What is it?" she asks, a slightly breathless query caused by the piquing of her inquisitive side.

  
"You don't know?" he teases in mock offense," You tried to set my robes alight with it when I restrained you from jumping off the cliff in the Storm Coast," he says waiting for the tell tale blush she has whenever he questions her sanity. The blush appears, spreading quickly from the tips of her ears.

  
"I could have made it," she snorts indignantly. "The dragon had barely left the ground."

  
"So flinging yourself off a cliff onto the back of an injured high dragon is a sensible idea?"

  
"Of course! All them scales and bones. The armor Dagna could make would have been magnificent," she says wistfully.

  
"Should we add cliff diving and dragon slaying to your list of Dalish leisure activities? After the kidnapping and naked proclivities of course," he says dryly.

  
"Pfft!" she says, crossing her arms and turning the silver chain one hand. Her fingers mindlessly play with the veilfire bauble, her eyes leaving his even as a smirk appears at his badgering.

  
"If I had realized spending so little time with Sera would have such an adverse effect on your vocabulary, I would have advised against her recruitment," he says a grin of his own flashed her way. He wonders what her reaction will be, and she does not disappoint-not that he thought she would.

  
"And what is that supposed to mean exactly?" she says, violet pinning him with an impish glare as she does something he does not expect-she touches him. More like pounces, completely shattering the small bubbles of privacy and personal space they've implicitly agreed too.

  
She wrestles him gently onto his back few protests on his part, flashes of the silver chain lost in the purer shine of her hair. She pokes and prods him the length of his body, trying to force a surrender, unaware of the small fires she ignites with each touch. Her assault is full of exuberance and is relentless, causing the scaffolding to wobble with the unexpected movements.

  
She loses her balance, falling forward so she's partially on top of him, his hands coming up to rest lightly on her waist to steady her. He looks up at her, hovering over him, eyes are surprised but dancing at their closeness, strands of silver falling from her mussed ponytail to frame her face-and time stops as he feels a fundamental shift between them.

  
Seeing the joy on her face, and knowing he was the one who put it there-

  
Knowing the feel of her, the fire wherever her body is pressed to his-

  
It changes him, forging an indelible tether permanently connecting him-an immortal, unchanging "god" to this ruin of a physical world but more importantly to the woman who's made the waking world so intriguing.

  
She is not merely his lethallan, she is so much more, and it terrifies him.

  
But even with this realization he cannot stop the hand that reaches up and touches her silver hair, her earlier boldness echoing through him and responding in kind. He brushes the loose strands behind her ears, fingers lightly tracing the shell from the lobe to tip and back again, watching in fascination as the tips redden.  Violet widens, innocently running over his face in shock. He notices the subtle vibrations becoming more prominent, the charge in the air heavier, pressing down on them.

  
The warmth and softness of her face on his fingertips is not enough, the look of innocent confusion stirring something long neglected and forgotten. She watches him as he cups her cheek, pressing back slightly into his palm. She lifts her unmarked hand, the one not wrapped in the silver chain, lightly dancing her fingertips over his face; his cheekbones, sliding gently to the ridge of his ears, pressing into the cleft of his chin.  
She pauses then, fascinated, as the vibration crescendos into a constant and steady thrum, a pulse his entire body recognizes and responds too, and he is lost, helpless as she makes to touch her marked hand to his face-

  
-until time starts again.

  
He's not sure what it is at first-the hazy slam of a book falling to the ground or a loud caw and shuffle followed by a displeased shout of _Baron Plucky!_ from the rookery-but she blinks, finally seeming to realize their unusual situation and adjusts herself accordingly, sitting up.

  
He knows he is not the only one to sense the shift. He can see the questions and wonderment in her eyes; a new shyness as she glances quickly at him and then away. He coughs to clear his throat and remembers what the question was in the first place.

  
"It is veilfire," he says simply.

  
"What does-oh," she says as she recalls the conversation. He should not revel in the feeling of smugness that comes from causing such a normally intelligent and articulate person to lose her train of thought but he was never one to heed advice, especially from himself, and he lets it fill him as she continues.

"So that's what they're calling it these days. Good to know," she adds with the impish grin.

  
"Indeed, " he answers, then continues. "It reminds me of you-it reveals the nature of things, shedding light on how something truly is-like you do here. With the Inquisition," he adds hurriedly, the nervousness returning.  
She pulls it to her face, examining it closely, then turns to him, eyes full of an emotion he can not name because it complicates everything he is working toward.

  
"It's beautiful Solas, thank you," she adds reverently, unclasping the chain and gesturing him to take it.  
He does, and she turns away slightly, pulling the loose strands of hair to the top of her head so he can clasp the chain around her neck, phial of veilfire falling unseen beneath the collar of her shirt.

  
"It's still warm..." she trails off.

  
"Yes, a side effect of fire I'm afraid lethallan," earning him an exasperated eye roll. "While veilfire does not burn as hotly as normal fires it should stay warm to the touch if you allow it to remain sea-"

  
"Inquisitor!" Josephine's trilling voice reverberates through the rotunda, an undertone of agitation evident even before the door opens. She enters, speaking quickly, arms gesticulating wildly in her haste.

"You must come quickly. It seems Master Pavus is in a...situation...to put it delicately."

  
And so the overcoiffed mage becomes the next victim he thinks to himself. How fitting.

  
Meryn clearly with the same conclusions lets out a resigned sigh, muttering something under her breath but squares her shoulders determinedly, shooting him a sly smirk. She starts down the ladder, but jumps off halfway down, landing nimbly on her feet.

  
When she turns back to him, one hand clutching the veilfire phial and he cannot help but stare-hair mussed, ears aflame from teasing, and breathing unevenly-and a rumble of satisfaction shoots through him, causing him to give her a wolfish smirk of his own as Josephine pulls her away.

  
He should remember to thank Sera in the near future.


End file.
